


You Go Down To Come Back Up

by GasterFan5



Series: Gravity Falls [6]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Apartments, Blood, College, Comfort, Depressed Stan, Gen, Mental Breakdown, Mental Unstability, PTSD, Prostitution (ish), Suicidal Stan, The Invincible Trio (yes I made this name), Therapy, Too-Smart Ford, What's Vocabulary, don't kill, homeless stan, plz notice me T_T, what is a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 19:10:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17628008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GasterFan5/pseuds/GasterFan5
Summary: Stanley Pines is broke. He also suffers from PTSD and constantly shoves down his emotions, thoughts, feelings, and memories. A day comes where he remembers and goes through a breakdown. Last time he was put in an asylum. It won't happen again.He has no money, nobody. So when two friendly men come up and ask if he would do them a favor by speaking in a school called Backupsmore, he gladly agreed.He didn't expect to reunite with his brother there.He didn't expect to have yet another breakdown.Stanley didn't expect to get help.Funny how life did that to you, huh?





	1. Working Your Way Up

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, ya know how it seems I totally wiped off the face of the Earth? I was working on this C: I'm not dead I swear. anyhow, there's some suicidal thoughts, depression, bad memories, prostitution-although not much because that's...not my style. I thought: why not create a new story with even worse vocabulary than the other ones?! So here we are. Hi. Only like two people will read this, and to those two: How'd you find this and have a nice day.  
> With that, enjoy!!!

The sun dipped lower in the sky as Stanley briskly walked on the sidewalk of yet another bad street. Dirt littered the buildings, and the sidewalks were cracked. Potholes filled the road, and the wind blew his hood onto his head. One side of the street lay a brown fence, which held a filthy yard. The other held the depressing buildings, and he glanced in between them. Only a few people were out right now including himself, and he entered a small alleyway between two. There was a trash can, the lid on the ground, and trash filled it to the top. In this very alleyway lay dirt, and besides trash there wasn’t anything else.

He leaned against the wall, facing the other building and sank to the ground with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Putting one leg entirely down and the other bent, he looked up. The sky was blue, but getting darker. “ _Maybe there’s time to go out for poker, or something,”_ he thought, feeling his stomach growl.

Stanley must’ve fallen asleep at some point, laying there in the alleyway. _The walls gleamed, brighter than the sun outside. White. All there was was white, covering every surface. No sharp objects. He was wearing a gown, which tied itself in the back, and he was walking down a white corridor that lead to white rooms. A key in his hand, the other on the wall to support himself. He walked down the long hallway, turning sharply and going towards the exit-but they wouldn’t let him go…more white. So much white. Everywhere. The sign read “Asylum” but he was dyslexic and his vision blurry, unable to read it. He bolted out the door, someone on his tail as he limped hurriedly towards the StnlyMble…_

..And he woke up. Funny how life did that to you. He jumped, looking around panickedly to realize he was safe-well, as safe as the streets were. A car rolled down the street slowly, examining the alleyways. Stanley froze, not moving when it stopped. Heart racing, he searched for his bat and grabbed it in his hands. 

“Who’s there?” Stanley asked, testing his grip. A tall, average-weighted man came over to him. He wore a grey shirt, and some formal tan trousers. Another man followed alongside him, with a slightly larger frame and a shorter appearance. He wore blue, but had the same pants.

“We’re not here to harm you-we ask of a request,” the taller one started, looking at him with bright green eyes. His blonde hair blew in the wind in an erratic matter, and he smiled in a friendly way. “I’m Kyle, and this is my coworker, Dane,” he added. Stanley shifted his eyes to look over Dane. Seemed friendly enough-might see him later as a customer.

“Ahh, what’cha lookin’ for?” he asked, leaning against the wall with the bat in one hand, the other now stuffed in his pocket.

“Well, our college is in need of a speaker. You know how it is, there’s kids doing…ridiculous things when they’ve gotten so far already…I just wanted to bring someone in,” Dane said just as warmly as the other man.

“A speaker, eh? Sorry, I don’t talk like that,” Stanley said, feeling the cigarettes in his pocket and opening the package. He fumbled with the lighter, igniting it and putting the thing in his mouth.

The pair seemed disappointed. “What if we pay you?” Kyle asked, hoping to bring him back onto the idea. Stanley looked up, still leaning against the red-bricked building. One of his feet was on the wall, the other on the ground. He crossed his arms, bat still in hand.

“How much?” he questioned, looking at the two.

“Well, we were thinking one to two hundred, but we can go up to three,” Dane answered nervously. Stanley grinned.

“Seems a’ight, when should I come in and what do I say?” Stanley asked with a grin. His comical grin.

“Well, just explain how you got here and how you hope nobody goes down your road. We’ll be hoping for you to come tomorrow. If you’d just come in our car, we can drive you down to a nearby hotel-or dorm, depending-and you can come in the next day,” Kyle explained, gesturing to the car.

Dane looked weary, hoping he’d accept the offer with his heart. “If you need more time, though, I’d say next week.”

Stanley gritted his teeth. It sounded like they were trying to kidnap him, but they’d seemed friendly. Besides that, there wasn’t anywhere for him to go, and if he _did_ get paid it was worth it…He nodded.

“Alright. It’s gonna take a few days to produce my life, but I’ll do it,” he replied with his grin, following them into the grey car. It was what car-fanatics called a “Volvo S60 Cross Country Crossover”, but hell knows what that is. A car, it’s a grey car that sat five people with a black interior.

Kyle and Dane talked about the school, but all Stanley cared was that it wasn’t West Coast Tech, because he knew Ford probably managed to get in. He could imagine the conversation, playing in his head. “ _Hahaa, yeah, brothers are stupid. They just ruin everything. Thanks for letting me in.”_ Stanley cringed at the thought.

The school was noted as Backupsmore University, which sounded stupid. It was kinda cute, and in theory all students got along. Or, did, and needed this speaker as a reminder to stay.

Stanley yawned, agreeing with whatever they said and looking out the window. He managed to fall asleep during the conversation, but Dane and Kyle didn’t really seem to mind; he probably hadn’t a good night’s sleep in a while.

_The hallways were dirty, and he dared not try anything. A dim light buzzed, flickering on and off. Bars held him like a border, not allowing escape or entry. His neighboring mates lay asleep, as it was night. There was just himself and one other prisoner in this cell, the others carrying three, four, and sometimes one or two. His prison-mate sat there on the bench with a sickening smile._

_“You remember the deal-I’ll protect you, and you give me something in return.”_

_That sick, sick look. He already knew what was coming. The man came closer, shortening the distance between the two-_

Stanley woke up. That might be the worst part, waking up to reality and wishing he didn’t wake up at all. He looked outside, still in the car. His neck hurt, but otherwise he was alright. The sky was a canvas of dark black, stars engraved in the sky with the moon and planets.

“ _Ford must be thinkin’ bout the constellations, pointing them out to another nerd,”_ he thought sadly, shaking his head.

They were here.

The doors opened in the front, and he knew to open his own, doing so and crawling out into the freezing night. He shut the door, following the two men into the room.

“So, there’s this one guy who decided to do his project on homelessness and seeing how they act and respond, so you’ll be staying in his dorm after the presentation,” Kyle broke the silence with, handing Stanley keys to an empty dorm. Stanley thanked the two of them and walked in.

It was surprisingly clean, cleaner than he’d had in a while. The yellow walls screamed happiness, stickers of smiley-faces, unicorns, rainbows, and others scattered across them. There was the door, and entering, there was a door to the bathroom, a brown bed with sky-blue blankets on his left, a kitchen area to his right and farther back, and a large window covered with a desk. “ _Do your studies while looking out at the stars,”_ he thought, thinking it pleasant.

Closing the door, he flopped onto the bed. There wasn’t much to do, and he didn’t need to change. Honestly, some good night’s rest, and getting to work when he awoke sounded nice.

Laying there for a while, staring at the white ceiling, he fell asleep and dreamt of nothing.

When he woke, he checked the time on a small digital clock he hadn’t noticed. In his hurry, he hadn’t noticed the bedside table, but it was appreciated still. It read 1:37 A.M., and he assumed it a good time to start.

Shifting the blankets off of himself, he rolled out of bed heavily and trudged to the desk. On it lie papers, and a pencil on the right side. He leaned into the chair, thinking on what to write. If he was too honest, he’d want to kill himself again. If he was too dishonest, the students wouldn’t take it seriously.

He thought for a moment, deciding to go big or go home, and picked up the pencil. Words flowed from his mind onto the paper, describing what happened to him. But he wasn’t gonna tell anyone all this, he was going to memorize this and there wasn’t a point in making the writing very well.

Of course, he couldn’t read well, so his penmanship wasn’t amazing either. Although his dyslexia was very very mild, of course, only showing when he was in a panic, stress, or the handwriting was horrible.

Ford’s handwriting was in cursive, but it was all looping in wrong ways and turning different directions, and he couldn’t read it at all. That was beyond the point; he needed to stop thinking about Ford.

Once finishing the writing, he checked the time on the faintly-glowing clock. 6:26. He yawned, not having to come in until seven; even though his speech wasn’t until tomorrow, he had to discuss what he was going to say, how the writing was going, and had to do various things like a filler of sorts when there wasn’t anyone to do it. Supposing he could make food if there was something in the fridge, he checked to find eggs, cheese, and milk. Taking the eggs and the milk out, he searched through cabinets and found flour, vanilla, and other staple ingredients.

_“Enough to make pancakes,”_ he thought, mixing the dry and adding the wet. Stanley recalled how Ford would always seem uninterested in cooking, as it wasn’t his thing-mainly because of how much he sucked at it.

To Stanley, cooking, baking, it was a science. It was something that was distracting, and got your mind off of what was troubling you without having to shoot some drugs or vape or drink or anything. Just cook, lose your mind in the system.

It was nice. He finished the pancakes and they turned out nicely. With a groan, he sat down at the dining table in the kitchen area. Stanley had around ten minutes, so he stuffed down the pancakes-even though he wanted to take his time-and took a shower, then sliding back into his filthy clothes. He was out the door at 6:55, and walked casually to where the LGIA was, re-running everything in his head.

Taking a deep breath when he got to the doors, he opened them. The two familiar faces turned, forming into smiles. A few other people were in the room, which was surprisingly clean as well. Stairs acted as carpeted seats like a multi-purpose room was good for. The walls were a peach-like tan, and the carpet was a slightly darker tan, spots dotting it.

There were the two men he met earlier, a tired women with black hair sitting beside a few other women, and several other men sitting at a table. They all looked at him, and he waved, sitting down with them awkwardly.

“Heya. Uhh, I finished the paper,” Stanley started, sitting down. The black-haired lady nodded, and Dane smiled in a friendly manner.

“Right, then you’re gonna substitute for Mrs. Davinson, who’s out today, since you have the time,” she said firmly, unamused. _Tough nut. Kinda like my brother._ He shook his head-he didn’t need to think about that right now. Getting up and off the chair, Stanley asked where the room was, then he bid them a good day and wandered the corridors, reaching room 207 in a few minutes.

He took a deep breath, changing his face from its usual deep frown to a grin, opening the door and walking over to the desk. The group wouldn’t put him in charge if it was going to be hard.

“Mornin, kiddos, I’mma be your substitute today,” Stanley addressed the group with, sliding into the chair. There were desks positioned to face a board, and there were rows of them leading to the back. The only door was beside a student’s desk, which was around four desks downward.

He examined them, relieved when he didn’t see anyone familiar. “So, anyone know what we’re doing?” he asked firmly but friendly at the same time. A student rose his hand, calling out after Stan gave a nod in his direction.

“We’re to do bookwork today, sir,” the friendly junior answered. He nodded.

“Alrighty.” Stanley repositioned himself to hunch over the desk, looking over the papers he had constructed last night. It seemed fine to him, and so he took it upon himself to look over the class. Some were engaged and actually doing the work, others looking through Instagram.

_Such a waste of technology. If I had it I could contact F-_ But he didn’t want to finish that thought. And so he didn’t, instead focusing on tomorrow’s speech. The class seemed pretty chill, so why not do something productive? There wasn’t anything wrong with his speech, but he reworded and modified it anyways for the duration of the class.

The bell rang, and he jumped; it wasn’t something he heard in years, and panic spread through his body for a quick second until he remembered. Students filed out, then in, and read the board-not like Stanley could read it, but whatever. That set of kids finished, the bell rang, and another group came in.

This happened eight times, only the last time no students came back. (Not to mention the fifth nobody was there, but hallucinating a group of students seemed normal to him. So he skipped lunch.) Assuming it the end of the day, Stanley stood up and walked out, hands in his pockets as he traversed the hallways, peeking through doors and admiring the school.

Stanley looked at the yellow walls, happiness written all over them. Remembering something, he took out a hand and quickly smacked it on the wall to support himself while it came back to him. _Those people. They didn’t want anyone to escape. They refused to let anyone go. A dirty tan color on the walls. Blood on the tiled floor._ Not now, of all times… _It spilled everywhere, and he looked up to find a man, the man, with dirty blonde hair. That grin. Knife in his chest, that look on their face. Nobody can escape. Taking the knife, he managed to plunge it in the man’s stomach. Screaming agony. Running. Collapsing._

He didn’t want to remember. Shaking his thoughts in hopes of stuffing that back down, he took a breath and continued walking. Stanley pushed off the wall, swaying drunkenly for a moment. He took another breath, walking down the hallway. Stanley imagined the blood on the ground, and a sigh escaped him while he continued down the halls.

_“Maybe that’s why I’m doing this, to ensure nobody else gets like this,”_ Stanley thought, turning out of the school. Making a move, he wandered back to the hotel he was given, mind racing. What’d everyone think of him? What if he wasn’t taken seriously? _“Least I’m gettin’ paid,”_ he reminded himself, opening the door.

There was a bag that wasn’t his own. It was black, and sort of small. Opening it, he examined the contents: A letter addressed to Stanley, a phone, some food. Sniffing it, he opened the letter.

_Dear Stanley,_

_Inside this bag are various items. We thank you for your participation, and have given these to you for assistance. My number is already in the phone, so do tell if anything comes up and you need extra time._

Stanley smiled, thinking it thoughtful for them to do. Yawning tiredly, he sat down on the bed. It was 3:46, and Stanley didn’t have anything to do. He wasn’t hungry, as he barely ate, what with having no money, and he finished the speech, so..

With a faint smile on his face and thinking of Ford, he managed to fall asleep, staring at the ceiling for hours until he did. _A portal. Stanley argued with Ford, and Ford fell through_ …He woke up with a start. Now he knew he wasn’t a psychic, as he had figured out his mom wasn’t, but that felt too real for comfort.

Stanley checked the time. It was 1:57 in the morning. How he slept for so long was a mystery, although it could’ve been due to his constant lack of sleep out on the streets; his body might’ve decided to get as much sleep as it could before he threw himself back out on the streets.

He sighed, sitting upright and leaning against the headboard, hugging his knees. Tears spilled from his eyes to the bed as he lay there, putting his head down for his forehead to rest on his drawn-up knees. _What would Ford think of me? A sickening creature who ruined his dreams, destroyed their own life, and came to a college to explain to never get where they-I did._ More tears fell, colliding with the pillow and scattered blankets.

Never had he felt so alone. Well, that wasn’t true, there’d always be an incident to beat the present; he’d be alone forever, and the memories would always remain. He leapt up out of bed-screw sleep. A flicker in the corner of the room made him pause. Examining it, there was a small triangle. Weak looking, huddled in a corner. Stanley reached out to it, only the isosceles vanished like his money did.

He sighed, already knowing it was a hallucination. Of course it was, just like everything else. He’d even dreamed of dreaming of dreaming before, and imagined trees in the middle of the road. No surprise it didn’t just disappear like that.

Checking his appearance in the bathroom, he took a shower, putting on his filthy clothes again, brushed his now-mullet, stuffed some food down, and waited around the hotel for the moment. He had a red jacket that could remind one of Sans’s jacket from Undertale, only it was faded and stained-and the wrong color.

He didn’t used to have this jacket, but sometimes you need to steal to survive-and seem presentable. No, he found it in the trash of some family, but Stanley would never say that. Underneath the jacket was a white shirt that was just as filthy, if not worse. Stanley wore blue jeans that were torn in some spots (although that sounded like normal fashion nowadays, so it didn’t really look wrong) and he wore brown boots. It was the only clothes he had besides a hat, and Stanley didn’t think he’d need one indoors.

Checking the clock that read 5:30, he shut the door behind him with his keys in hand. Walking down the long hallway, down the elevator, and out the exit , he managed to get to the school at 7:00, as he had to walk the entire way and that took time.

Entering the building, he met up with Kyle and Dane, who explained what was going to go down and led him to the auditorium. It was dark without the lights, but he could make out yellow square lights on the walls, which appeared a light green (mixed with a brown, perhaps? Sounded like a Khaki green) in the dark. A gold railing led to the stage, which held drawn-up yellow curtains. A large sign stated how welcome everyone was there, and a golden-colored pedestal with a microphone stood in the middle. The ceiling was a darker shade of green, and the chairs were brown, cushioned a dark yellow.

_“Doesn’t seem so bad,”_ Stanley thought, recalling his memories and the pains of his days. Of course, they were actually really good days-most of the time he’d be lucky just to get warm air, or a friendly face. He shook out of his thoughts, chuckling, then taking a seat on the right-hand side of the stage beside three others: one for Dane, one for Kyle, and one for the headmaster.

Students filed in after a bell rang, and they sat down in their respective seats. The curtains were closed, a projection gleaming on them and showing an image in preparation for the slideshow he had to show.  Once the bell rang again, the principal came up to the pedestal.

The principal came up quite calmly. “Now, we know some of our students are getting…out of hand, so to speak. Trying drugs, doing bad things, and we’ve brought someone in to explain the wrongness in this.” A round of applause and a gesture to Stanley for him to come up.

He gave a grin, shaking the woman’s hand. “Thank you,” Stanley started, gripping the pedestal. “Name’s Stan Pines, ’few of you look familiar,” he commented, addressing the audience. Leaning on it causally, he winked.

“In all seriousness, I heard some of you are goin’ down a bad path.” A few of the students looked around, swearing that man looked familiar. “Well, I was up in high school-you know, the time everyone despises-and got into some things. My hot temper never took me down good roads, an I ended up screwing over my own life.”

He tapped his chin, thinking for a moment. “I also ruined someone else’s life that I cared about. And the thing is, when you go down drinkin and all, ya end up like me: homeless, everyone you knew hates ya. I’m no inspirational speaker, but if you go down this road and don’t give a damn about your own consequences, think for a second what’d happen to everyone around you.”

Stanley sighed, pointing to the presentation. “Hate to be rude, but a presentation isn’t gonna explain what went wrong. It just tells you not to. If you start drinking, you’ll never make any money when hitting rock bottom, cuz you just buy the stuff you’re addicted to.”

“I’m sorry if this sounds stupid,” he gestured to a few kids here, “But ya know, I screwed up everything and there’s no fixing it. There’s nothing you can do about it when it’s this late in, ya know? I’m gonna die some day from heart disease or something stupid, and was it worth it? No. No it wasn’t. I regret what I did to my bro every damned day, but there’s no fixin what I did. Now I’m gonna be alone forever.”

Stanley continued ranting like this, which did inspire those who were going down the path to head back and go the right way. “So, any questions?”

A smaller, thinner kid rose his hand. He had brown hair, a feminine appearance, and thick glasses. “Yes, is your brother identical to you, by chance?” he asked, who would later be known as Fiddleford.

“Uhh, yeah, but that’s not r-really important…” Stanley answered, trailing off. It hurt to talk about Ford. No other questions, just looks. He sat back down with a sigh, feeling worn-out but glad he made some money off of it.

Kyle gave him a pat on the shoulder, reassuring him that “he did a good job out there.” All of the kids gave him some weird looks, but besides that it seemed that the speech went well. Dane had mentioned a few things, then the students filed out. Kyle leaned over to him. “There’s still that kid. It’s the person who asked the question. His name is Fiddleford and you’re gonna stay there a week, then you gotta leave,” he whisper-explained, nodding to the one kid left in the auditorium.

Fiddleford smiled nervously, waving a hand in the air. Stanley returned the smile, nodding to Kyle and Dane, then getting up and moving over to the man. “Heya, heard I was campin’ with you for a few days?”

Fiddleford nodded. “Yeah, just for a week. It’s currently Monday, then you stay until the next one,” he explained. Stanley nodded, wanting to give out his hand-but you never do anything without permission, that’s what got you hurt; he had scars to prove that.

The young man extended his hand, to which Stanley took it, and he lead him to his dorm. Upon reaching the door, Fiddleford turned around nervously. “There was a student that didn’t go to the assembly today; he was too busy working on something to attend,” he started, looking up at Stanley with the same nervous expression. “While on normal circumstances I’d be fine with this, he-ah, you might find a resemblance to him, by chance.”

Stanley blinked. “Whoever it is, I can handle,” he replied reassuringly. Fiddleford looked into his eyes for a lie, nodded, and opened the door. He was hit with the smell of old books, of his old room back at home…It made him want to cry how much it reminded him of Ford.

The mess on the ground, scattered books, the yellow walls that matched the school, the unkempt beds. God, everything there screamed Ford. He wiped tears Stanley’d claim weren’t there, and sighed.

“Seems nice n all, but where ‘m I stayin’?” Stanley asked, trying to get his mind off of it.

“R-right, well if you don’t mind, I have you in the same room as my roommate. If you’re bothered, you can sleep on the couch.”

Stanley nodded. “Lead the way.”

The pair moved through the mess to get to where this roommate would be. Fiddleford looked at him for a second, and with a nod on Stan’s behalf, they opened the door.

A man slept at the desk in the corner, brown, messy hair obscuring the view of his face. The left-hand side held a bunk-bed which made him want to cry again, and the rest of the room consisted of a wardrobe, a rug, a window, and books littered across the floor. The beds were a warm brown, the blankets a softer yellow. Stanley could only assume that the school’s colors had yellow, the new hufflepuffs of the century.

He froze there for a second, bracing himself for the memories that would no doubt show themselves. Stanley tried burying them in the back of his mind, but when he forgot, he had to remember. That was life. _Books scattered the floor, discarded like yesterday’s newspaper. Stanley was sitting in the middle of the circle of books. Find the answer, or you’re not worth it. Time was passing, but he couldn’t understand the concepts-if he didn’t get his grades up, Filbrick would no doubt take out the belt. That was common sense. Stressing himself out, the walls turning colors, he couldn’t see, everything was colliding. He hit the floor, passing out from exhaustion-_

There wasn’t a need for this right now. He shook himself out of it before he went too deep into it. Cold sweat ran down his face, but he tried not to let that show. The man there looked familiar. Looked like him-ish. Stanley glanced at the sleeping figure.

Six fingers on each hand. He wanted to hurl, scream, wake him up, and cry all at the same time. Mixed emotions never got anyone somewhere good. “That’s…that’s Ford,” Stanley whispered to Fiddleford, who nodded.

“You’re stuck with him for a week,” he whispered back, motioning him to come back out. They went out to the main room, sitting down on the light green couch. Fiddleford sighed. “I try really hard to get him better. But being in the same position, wanting to overexert myself and get everything done too…it’s not easy. I’ve been going insane trying,” he said, looking down at his hands and folding them in his lap.

“Hey, don’t sweat it. I’ll help for the week I’m here. But uh, you do you-and don’t worry too much over ‘em like that. You have a college degree to earn,” Stanley grinned, pointing his thumb to himself. “I’m here to help.”

Fiddleford smiled. “Thanks. If you don’t mind, I’m going to take a rest. I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep in a while.”

Stanley nodded, watching him go into his own room with a faint smile. Getting up himself, he checked their fridge; he always loved to cook, but never did get the chance. Now was a good time. There was actual food in there, which surprised him; when was there food with two nerds in the house?

He sighed, glancing around. “ _No meat. One must be vegetarian or somethin,”_ Stanley thought with a sigh. What to make? He checked the time. Well shit, that assembly took hours. It took him hours to spill his heart out. It was 12:29. Deciding to make some sandwiches, he pulled out the bread, throwing the slices on the counter like they were Frisbees.

Assuming neither had an allergy to anything in the house, he took out some cheese and fried them on a pan over the stove, flames licking the pan and reaching up. _A large fire. It was the only way to ensure the building never got anyone else. The literal whore house, flames shooting out windows and flying up in the night sky. Good thing they were closed today. Fire attacking his leg, he shook it off, third-degree burns remaining a reminder of what he did. But it was the only way to ensure it didn’t happen again._

Stanley gasped, reawakening from the memory. Why did he get these? He remembered everything that happened in his life, why was he constantly recalling everything? It didn’t make sense, and it pissed him the hell off. Scraping the grilled-cheese sandwiches off the pan, he put them each on a plate and turned off the fire. Cleaning up afterwards, Stanley wrapped the two in tinfoil to keep it warm, not feeling hungry and wrapping the last one.

With a sigh-as the recent memories were painful ones-he quietly walked into his own room, kept a mindful watch of Ford, and curled in on himself in the bottom bunk. The scars from the burns stung, but he couldn’t feel it through that numbness. Hot tears spilled onto the clean sheets, which he felt guilty for immediately, and he managed to cry to sleep.

_A knife. The man in front of him held a knife. The pair found themselves in an alleyway, Stanley fighting to get off the wall. He plunged the knife into Stanley, who screamed in pain and collapsed. The man, known as Rico, laughed, easily turning him over so his face was on the ground and his back towards the sky. For a split-second Stanley had no clue what was going on. And then his shirt was lifted, the knife coming closer to his back. Pressing into it, the words carved in and bleeding, no doubt going to leave a scar. White-hot agony at its core, the horrible words, the pain. Thank God nobody he knew spoke Spanish. Carving deeper, the pain, the PAIN overtaking him._

Stanley Pines woke up in a cold sweat, still in the same bed. Now that he thought about it, he was drugged or drunk the majority of the time these happened, or it was so bad his body forced him to forget. Perhaps that was why he remembered-because he purposefully forgot something he shouldn’t have. He glanced at the small, unnoticeable digital clock that read 5:48. If he fell asleep at around one, that was…five hours. Five hours of sleep.

He glanced over to the desk to find Ford still asleep. At least he could be awake when Ford figured it out. On second thought, maybe he should be asleep for that. Stanley felt like crap, getting up with the stinging in his back. The last memory wasn’t too long ago, and some of the words were still cut, bleeding fresh. Others had managed to heal and scar over by now.

Stanley sighed, walking out of the door and to the kitchen. One of the sandwiches were gone, meaning that Fiddleford ate, but the other two remained. He glanced around, looking for the man, and found he was back in his room, working on something at his own desk.

With nothing to do but think about his horrible decisions here, Stanley half wanted to leave. If he did, he risked going to jail, getting tortured, having to leave without getting paid…if he stayed he’d probably die of boredom. He’d take boredom over the other options, though, so he walked back to Ford’s room, took a blanket and wrapped it around himself. With a sigh, he sat back onto the bed, hugging his drawn-up knees.

_“What am I gonna say to Ford when he wakes up? ‘Hey, it’s your horrible brother, back for a week because of some project on homeless people! Nice to see you!’?”_ Stanley thought with a sarcastic tone to it. _“No. That’s stupid! I’m stupid…I…why did I come here?”_ he ended, tears dripping down on the mattress again.

Shaking, he tried riding his mind of his thoughts, but to no avail; they just wouldn’t go away. Sighing, he wiped his tears away with his sleeves. Stanley hadn’t had to do it in a while, as he didn’t really have time, but…he searched through his pockets, fetching his pocket-knife, toying with the blade.

Sometimes it was easier not to think about it, not to look at the scars. He pressed it over his forearm, dragging it across and leaving a trail of blood. The pain made him completely forget feelings; it wasn’t a good feeling, the numbness, but at least he wasn’t crying. He repeated the action a few times, taking deep breaths while doing so, then stowing away the knife.

Stanley sighed, watching the blood clot and the scabs form for a moment before putting his sleeve down. He glanced over to the desk, where Ford was awake. He hadn’t seemed to notice Stan, too focused on his work. Typical.

He walked over quietly, not making a sound yet wanting to scare the shit outta the man. But that wasn’t a good impression, so with a sigh he turned, walked to the door, practically closed it, and knocked.

“Fiddleford, I’m busy right now-and I told you you needn’t knock, I know who you are and trust you well enough by now,” Ford called out from the other side.

“Ya don’ make a good impression,” Stanley replied, opening and leaning against the door with a wave. He probably looked like shit, the same clothes been worn for weeks on end, and the look on his face-the tired smile when you just never want to wake up again-didn’t help. It just completed the shitty outfit.

Ford turned, hearing the voice. At first he seemed angry, but seeing Stanley that way…It seemed to make him really upset, if anything. “Stanley? Stanley, are you okay?!” he asked, though already knowing it was him and probably forming an answer for his question.

“Did ya miss me?” he responded with questioningly. Tears blurred Ford’s vision, and he leapt up from the desk and hugged him tightly.

“I thought I-I’d never g-g-get to a-a-a-apologize to you….I thought I was never gonna s-see you again!” Ford blurted, hugging him even tighter-like hell if that was possible. Stanley patted him on the back reassuringly, hugging him back.

“Heh, your bro don’ leave that quick.”

The two of them stood there for a good moment, Ford apologizing and such and Stanley saying it was alright. Time passed, and Ford decided it time to get something to eat; it had been a while since he did, and Stan wasn’t gonna say no to food. Food was food.

Stan’s wrists still stung from before, but he wasn’t gonna mention anything. Just put on a con man’s smile and they’ll never know. They’d never figure out anything.

And that’s what he wanted.


	2. Falling Apart (And lil Epilogueish thing)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo Megxolotl saiid they wanted to hear the restttt  
> So naturally the second I saw it, I posted the last bit. Sorry it's kinda short but I thought it sounded OK.

Stanley sighed; after their little reunion, the trio ate and split. Ford and Fidds both had a project to work on, and Stanley was fine taking a nap. Till he dreamt of the past again. _The black walls. The coldness of the air, the feeling he’d catch hypothermia but being unable to shake it off. Stanley was in another room with black walls, a floor of the same color. Chains hung on his wrists and ankles, keeping him above the ground and hanging by his arms. He couldn’t move well. The searing pain in his side. The group of people coming up to him, beating him._

He’d woken up after that, and decided it best not to sleep. So here he sits in bed, staring at the mattress and remembering the memory slowly. It was dark, and he knew Ford was pulling an all-nighter by now. He just knew. It was common sense. Taking his knife out, he stared at it for a moment before swinging it across his arm at a rapid speed. Pain signaled, and his memory washed away, back into the darkest recesses of his mind.

Stanley sat there in bed for hours, watching the clock and holding the knife in one hand. Every time the memories came seeping through, he’d make another cut and it would fade. Time ticked away, and soon enough it was 9. Good enough time. It was already…thursday. Yeah, that’s right, he re-met Ford on wednesday, as on Monday he went straight to bed, the next day was uneventful…yeah. Already thursday. There was only four days until he was back on the streets; so long as he managed until then there’d be so much bad he just couldn’t remember.

He grimaced, thinking of the horrors he’d encounter back out there. He stood up, quietly walked out the door, and found the apartment eerily quiet. Stanley slowed, then stilled upon reaching the kitchen. It felt…familiar. In a bad way. _Black rooms. Black everything._ He shook out of it, finding a note there claiming they had to go to school and would be back around 2:30. He smiled. Today, he could cry. Today, he could cut. Today, he could do anything, and wouldn’t have to smile. His smile faded, and he decided on keeping the knife with him.

Stanley walked back to his room, curled up in a ball, and cried himself to sleep. He learned if he felt pain almost immediately before, he wouldn’t dream of anything. So there the blood trailed down his thigh sideways as he lay on his side.

He dreamt of nothing, yet woke in a cold sweat nonetheless. A bang in the distance. Why he didn’t know, but he did know it wasn’t gonna end any time soon. Cold sweat he’d take over nightmares anytime, though, so he kept the knife dangled loosely in his hand all day. It was still the same lonely Thursday, and time ticked on. Stanley never minded the darkness, until that day. Until that day, he’d never minded metal. Never minded flashlights. Never had panic attacks when he saw flashlights, when he passed by anyone. Until that day, Stanley thought weapons weren’t so bad. He slept with one now, would never let it go. Until that day Stanley assumed nothing would ever happen to him, because who expected that?

Until that black room, the darkness, the _emptiness,_ Stanley was fine. Now here he is, trembling in fear when there’s any sort of weapon, when he’s held, when there’s a light. Now he keeps pills with him everywhere he goes. There was a day when he wasn’t afraid of heights. Now he’ll never go up any ladders, up anywhere higher then his own height.

So here was Stanley, shaking in fear when the darkness overtook the light. When the only light glinted from the digital clock. He looked outside, lightning flashing through it with a _bang_ and rain pounding with it. It was 11:27. The logical part of him told him it was a thunderstorm and the power went out, the other going crazy. Tears flowed down his face, and he ran down underneath the table, shaking heavily.

_The black walls, the black room that was practically a void. You couldn’t see a thing, and only when that door opened light would seep through, and you knew you were going to get it. What torture was to be determined by their mood. Light seeped through, expanding across the room and hurting his eyes. Stanley was chained to the ceiling and floor, unable to move. He trembled, the gang member coming over at a slow and suspenseful pace. The knife he carried dragged across the wall, scraping it painfully, and the few hidden machines buzzed. You’d always hear them, just never see it. See anything. One turned on. By the looks of it, it was the one hooked to the serrated blade, ripping apart whatever skin they chose to mutilate._

_The male turning him over, allowing the machine to tear the skin of his back apart while Stan screamed in pain, muffled by a hand._

Lightning flashed from the windows and Stanley trembled harder, curling in on himself and crying silently. An hour had passed by, the storm still pounding, in fact harder now than earlier. 12:37, but he wouldn’t know; Stanley was still crying, shaking with fear and suppressed tears.

Another hour passed-in fact it was now 1:48-and he still stayed down there. The storm was long gone, but the room was still black as night and he was still remembering.

There was time where, in his most emotionally vulnerable stages, he would remember many, many things and couldn’t get out of it. It had only happened once, and he’d ended up in the asylum for a few weeks. Now here he was, weaker than ever, recalling everything he shoved down.

Stanley paused his hysteria, feeling a repressed memory claw its way back out. _Stanley was broke, and needed the money. He told himself this repeatedly, each time, knowing indeed he needed money. But starting the job again really got him upset. Stanley bent over, his chest leaning on the dumpster in an alleyway. Someone pressed against him from behind. He’d hoped he wouldn’t need to stoop that low for another time…each repeated time Stanley accepted the job, he knew he wasn’t getting out of this hole any time soon. Every damned time he told himself he wasn’t going to have to do it again, but he knew it was a lie. It upset him, but hey. He’d ruined his own life when he chose to live._

A moment of freedom where he processed the memory, then yet another peered through. A pause. Another memory. Then another, then another, and soon enough it was 2:30.

_Alone. He was alone in the alleyway one second, the next second a familiar face appeared with a gang of new ones. Stanley remembered him from winning that bet, and he looked angry. Wanted his money back. They fought-Stanley couldn’t beat them off. A serrated knife being pushed into his skin and moving like it were a saw, skin tearing and blood pooling. Stanley felt hopeless, the wave of adrenaline leaving him with an empty, sinking feeling. They checked his bag, then all four of them grouped up with his belongings and bailed._

He shook, hugging himself tighter. The light came in through the door, and he shook harder. Memories came through and all he could think was that he was back there.

_A fear washing over him. He was in the black room again, this time a group coming together and grouping up, coming towards him. Nunchucks swinging in one man’s hand, the other man carrying a whip. The third and final was a woman, smiling and holding a knife. They advanced at a rapid pace, and Stan tried to get out of his chains-to no avail. There was no escape. He ruined his own life._

God, when would it end?! Tears poured down his face and he backed, noticing the light coming from the door. He pushed himself back, bumping into the legs of the table and continuing to the counters. Stanley heard a faint call of his name, but couldn’t identify who it was. He cried heavier, shaking his head. “Please don’t, I didn’t-I didn’t do it this time, I didn’t mean t-to, I didn’t-just let me go,” he whispered, shaking when a figure appeared in front of him.

_The rooms were dark, and the mad dog was taken in his room. What a lucky day for him. Stanley shivered. “H-heya, buddy,” he spoke calmly, hoping it wouldn’t bite. The dog growled, confused as to its location, why it was there, but seeing someone in front of him gave him a sensation. He wanted to bite. The dog lashed forward, dashing towards Stan and biting his arm. He hissed in pain, trying to throw the attacker off, but his restraints held him in place…_

_…Still dark. They hadn’t even bothered to check on him for a week-perhaps that was the point, to make him forget everything he’d ever known and go insane in the darkness. He was hungry, oh so hungry, and couldn’t remember what light was. Couldn’t really think much. Hunger pains. Stanley was so weak he could barely move…_

_…they’d finally caught up to him. The gang. He’d been running for so long, and then next thing you know he needs sleep. So he falls asleep, waking to someone holding a cloth over his mouth and him passing out. Then he reawakes, finding himself in a black room, with black walls and black floors and black, well, everything. He tried moving, but could only push forward or backward, unable to touch the ground. His arms were held up, chains ensuring they wouldn’t fall, and his legs were pulled tightly with chains on his ankles, rendering him immobile…_

_…“Stanley!”…_

_…A dead quiet. Nobody was there, nobody was coming. He’d considered the option a thousand times. The knife in his hand screamed his name._   
  


_…“Stanley!!!!!! Stanley!”…_

_…‘What better way than to die by your own hand?’ It seemed to ask. He stared. “Stanley!!!!!” Digging the knife into his wrist. Bleeding heavily. Cutting a vein. Collapsing…_

“Stanley!?”

A dark void of nothing, feeling similar to that room yet…warm. Pleasant. Stanley was stuck in the mindscape, reliving his memories. You see, when you push everything down it always comes back to get you. Imagine pushing a button. It has to go back up at some point.

So here he was, remembering everything while his mind was still weak, fighting tears and sanity. He shook terribly, holding his head in his hands while tears poured down his face. Another memory overtook him, and he was gone again in the past.

|~Ford~|

Ford allowed a sigh to escape; his day was a pretty long one, and he was tired as hell. Him and Fiddleford had went out to eat, getting home around three. He noticed the power was out, which did piss him off. Ford called out Stanley’s name as a way to acknowledge his presence. No response. “Stanley?” Silence. Tears, muffled sobs, the table pushing to one side and a thump.

There his brother was, who had seemed so fine for the past three days. He’d smiled all the time. Was his charisma, his bright and large personality, was it a way to hide away all the pain? Was it all fake? But no, he’d never been like that before. Something must’ve happened in the years he was gone.

But what?

Screaming out his name, shaking him hard, it didn’t have much of an effect. Those same dead eyes, the same tears pouring down his face.

Ford hugged him hard, whispering an “I’m sorry,” and hugged him even harder. Fiddleford sat beside him, taking a note in his head how he was mentally after years of being on the streets.

|~Stan~|  
  


Stanley could hear something, some _one,_ yet couldn’t identify who. When they hugged him, he came back to reality. It was safe. Something was safe.

He woke up with a gasp from his trance, tears rolling down his face. “F-Ford?” Stan noticed the other man beside him. “S-shit, I’m sorry,” he stammered, wiping away his tears. “I didn’t mean to, uh…sorry about that.”

Fiddleford looked at him with a concerned look. “How often does this happen?”

“What, remembering stuff? Happens all the time…It’s not really important, though. The major shit happened only one other time.” Stanley looked away for a second, putting on a smile.

Both the Fords shared a glance (see? Fiddle _ford_ and Stan _ford_? Eh? No? OK) and looked back at him. “That’s not normal…” started Ford.

“And it’s never wrong to get help.”

Stanley looked back up, his smile fading. “Heh. Yeah, I know. I’ll get back up, I just-I need some things I don’t have.”

“And what might that be?”

“Well, first, a house. Second, people are still after me to this day and ready to kill me on eyesight or torture me. Third, I’ve got nothing to live for.” He stopped, realizing it might not be a good idea to say he hadn’t a house to Ford.

Ford appeared concerned. “You-what have you been doing these years?” But he already knew. Torture, prostitution, drug-abuse, alcoholism…Depression.

“I think you already know. And hey, Fidds, I hope ya got something good to write,” he humored, nudging him.

“This will be the best paper I’ve ever written,” Fiddleford admitted, laughing. He looked down at the pad of paper he was writing on, which was filled with notes on his attitude, behavior, and mental health. That was the paper. It was on how being homeless affected your decisions, which affected your behavior and your stability. _What Goes Always Comes Back_ was to be the title, or at least what he was thinking. Fiddleford was also considering _Light in the Dark, The Butterfly Effect,_ and _Mental Stability and Homelessness_. mainly What Goes Always Comes Back, as it seemed intriguing.

. . .

After insistence, Stanley camped out with them for a while. He also went out to therapy, being diagnosed for depression, P.T.S.D, and dyslexia, and slowly opened up. He had stopped his addiction, and lived a happier life with the two of them.

Fiddleford graduated a year before Ford did, staying around while Ford finished his work, and busying himself with PCs.

Ford had managed to finish as well, focusing on the weirdness of Gravity Falls, to which the three of them grouped up to build the cabin out there to live in.

Stanley was planning on leaving at some point, feeling a bit like a burden, but they did enjoy his company and wanted him there, so not any time soon. He still took pills, this time antidepressants and prescribed.

The trio was happy, and when they worked together with creativity, intelligence, and brute force, anything could be possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tadaaaa you lived to the end! Haha. Have a good day C:

**Author's Note:**

> Guys I'mma go disappear again. I might never come back-I most likely will though, I can't stop writing haha. C:  
> If nobody comments like "I wanna hear the rest" I won't post it becauseeeeee.....I dunno. You know I will. I almost named this button. Just because you have to push it for it to go up. Like life. Sounded too weird though. :/  
> Have a goooooood day/night/whateveryouwannacallit :D


End file.
